Tears & Rain
by TheWickedQuill
Summary: Rogan Rory gives her stringless, notquite relationship some serious thought...sorta. Standalone.


Title: Tears & Rain  
Show: Gilmore Girls  
Rating: PG  
Pairing: Rogan implied  
Genre: Angst  
Type: Standalone.

**Setting:** Canon - parallel _for the most_ _part_ to s05e17, Pulp Friction.

**Summary**: Rory gives her string-less, not-quite relationship some serious thought...sorta.

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended. Final word: I don't own anything but my own ideas.

* * *

**TEARS & RAIN**

* * *

Coffee. Hmm. I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed in Betty Boop pyjamas and clutching a piping hot cup of coffee just beneath my chin. It's dark outside and it makes me wonder where the day went. It was dark when I got up and it's dark again now and I _know_ there were hours in between. It's been days since I couldn't differentiate between day and night. 

Six o'clock. It's dinner time, I think. When did I last eat something substantial? Oh, right. Huh. I had a pop tart with coffee for breakfast, wrote a couple papers, had more coffee, gnawed on a stale bagel while studying for my Lit exam, coffee and...I think that's it. Dinner might be a good idea.

But I'm distracted again. The rain stopped, and the distinct scent of wet grass and damp earth wafted in through the crack in my window. Note to self: call repairman to fix window. I think it's been long enough.

I've been doing a lot of that lately; thinking. I tend to think a lot. Too much, some might argue. I think and I analyze and then I analyze the analyzed to death.

Stomach rumblings reminding me of my lack of food intake aside, let's take the rain for instance. I hate to leave things unfinished, and the rain thought is still at the forefront of my mind at the moment. I wasn't even really thinking about the rain before, but now you've got me started. More about the way the world seems to come alive after it rains.

There's just something soothing about the first few minutes following a rain shower. Looking down at my now half-finished cup of Joe, I sigh. See? Soothing. Just the calm of a winter evening and a nice, hot mug of java. Refreshing. Like the odd splash from random raindrops and the crisp, freshness of the air and light, ruffling wind lends a different appearance and feel to every living thing following a rainfall. Like I said, soothing, refreshing.

It's funny how clear and bright the world seems suddenly, as if everything were dirty and covered by layers of grit and grime that needed only to be washed away to reveal the true beauty of nature.

If only the same could be said about other things; things like guilt and regret and the blunt, painful smack-in-the-head that is hindsight.

Tangents. I really hate when people do that, you know? Go off on a tangent and forget what they were talking about to begin with. And seeing as I've been hating myself enough lately, I'd prefer not to add another tally to the list. So let me tie these thoughts together. After the rain falls...

Rain... Rain. Rain? Hmmm. Rain. Drops. Tears. Ah, connection! And oh, mug looks so sad. Empty. Poor mug.

The wind is whistling obscenely, trying to force its way through the cracks in the glass. My reflection stares back at me from the window pane looking somewhat grotesque and oddly streaked. I reach up to wipe the glass but the marks remain. I move the empty mug in my hand to find that it really _was_ lonely; ran out of coffee and settled for salt water! Good heavens, poor mug!

Time moves slowly, or quickly, or perhaps as it normally does, one second after another, bringing minutes into hours and the hours stretch on. I don't know how long I've been sitting here, anymore.

Dragging the back of my hand across my damp cheeks, I'm surprised to note that with all the wandering my mind has done in the time that has passed, and me, still on my bed in my pyjamas, I find that I'm still connecting tears and rain. I'm connecting them, you see; they're both wet and fall in drops. But there the similarities end.

There is no quiet serenity following my flow of tears or gentle ripples of calm to ease my shaking shoulders. And the emptiness inside seems hollow now that I've spent my emotions so thoroughly. There is no blast of horns to bring me back to the present, no Paris or C-SPAN or even a Mom-attack (something some people might call an actual threat to one's mental wellbeing,) no; I'm alone here with my thoughts tonight and my only companion is the icy loneliness that keeps me bogged in memories.

These tears have not cleansed me, nor have they purged the more painful events of the past, faded or recent. There is no shining sun or bright horizon, no clowns or parades. There is just cold, hard reality.

Terrence says that acknowledging that I'm not always going to be in control is the first step. Accepting reality comes next. Dealing with that reality will come in time. Terrence is a smart man; he gives good advice. Ye-up, that's right. Terrence. Paris' Terrence. The one I used to laugh at her about. Can you believe it? I've acquired my very own life-coach. Or borrowed. Who cares? He's good, he's used to me, hell, he works with Paris on a daily basis. He's a Saint and now I have more reason to worship him. Who knew having Paris as a roommate would finally pay off?

Terrence told me to start with small steps. This is following his heated defense of yours truly after hearing Paris' very vocal, no-holds-barred opinion that I should: _"...keep your misery to yourself so I don't get caught in the aftershock, because, thank you very much, I'm finally happy about where I am and I don't need Hunztberger ruining me like he did you. You're completely useless now. Even braving that third world country Doyle calls a dorm is better than watching you bitch and moan."_

He _tsk_-ed at her, shaking his head and tapping a finger against his jaw. Classic Terrence, really. But still, she plowed on. _"Completely useless, Gilmore! I used to respect you, you had a spine. Then, BAM! Huntzberger! And you go limp. No spine to speak of!!"_ The rant ended in an abrupt face-palm moment - my face, her palm. _"C-SPAN is on so either snap out of it or shut up, but whatever you decide, _take it somewhere else_."  
_  
Paris must have found her 'calm center' and 'inner wellspring of peace' or heard the sacred voices guiding her, blah, blah, blah, because now she's in on it, too. _Take small steps, it'll get easier._ They've been saying that for days. The morning after I woke up next to the toilet with a lump the size of a golf ball on my temple and a first-rate shiner, even I agreed that things had to change.

Small steps.

At first it was brushing my teeth. Then, combing my hair and washing my face. After a few days it was dry cereal and re-introduction to coffee. Next, we worked on getting me dressed each day. Then the finer points of personal hygiene. I made up missed lessons and resumed going to classes. I was on autopilot, but at least I was in motion once again.

My re-entry into Yale student life was slow but steady. However, hanging out at the pub, trips to the Hollow and even writing for the paper are difficult for me, now. I'm not ready for the familiar faces I might come across; people I associate with a certain blond who'd crushed my heart at my own insistence.

Herein lies the rub. I left myself wide open for heartbreak. I asked for this, mind you. _I_ _asked for this_, and for that reason, I can't blame him.

I'd never planned on falling for him. Logan Huntzberger was everything I'd laughed about and made fun of with Jess. He was the antithesis of everything I had ever supported and believed. The ultimate playboy, money up the wazoo, and a powerful name that could get him out of - or into! - anything.

Logan was everything my mother hated. He was part of _that_ world; the one she had tried to shelter me from all my life. A world that was slowly sucking me in; I hadn't even noticed. But Dean had. And that night he finally acknowledged it, voiced the thought so that it could no longer be denied and pushed aside. For all that I'd been protected from the 'evil clutches' of Society, I was a very real part of it just as it was a very real part of me. I hadn't even known Logan that well at the time, but fitting into his life and with his friends and their crazy lifestyle, was an almost seamless transition. Dean figured it out before me; it was a world he didn't fit into. What he hadn't said and what we both knew, though my eyes only opened too late to prevent the hurt, was that it was a world I _did_ belong in, one I even enjoyed.

And the more I got to know Logan, the more I wanted to _be_ a part of that world. _His_ world.

Somewhere in the last couple hours I'd gone from a large coffee to a thumbnail of salt tears to a wet bedspread and an unsteady hand of Vodka. Hey, I recognize this flask! I had a silly, half-smile on my face as I remembered how I'd won the flask from Finn during one of his nightly bouts of drunken tomfoolery. Heh. Vodka. Not my drink of choice, but it's working wonders on the nerves. I wonder how long that will last.

I sighed. Nothing lasts forever, except maybe death. Oh, morbid isn't the way to go tonight. Not when I've got alcohol. Finn. His flask. The gang is probably already at the pub and Logan... Right, Logan. Back to the source. Well, Logan, rain, tears, wet, dreary, sad. It was all connected. Which brings me back to the question I just _had_ to ask him.

Downing two fingers of Slavic 'water', or, and I couldn't hold back a giggle at the thought, _goriashchee vino_ - an old Russian term from the 18th century meaning 'hot wine'. Who in their right mind would compare vodka to wine, hot or otherwise? But I digress, again.

After a drunken discussion with my Dad (and allow me to state that at that time I was not the one inebriated, even if I am a bit now) I decided to tear a page out of my mother's book and take a chance. I confronted Logan. At first, he turned me down. Sweetly, true, but it was a rejection nonetheless.

_"You are beautiful. You are intelligent. You are incredibly interesting."_

Those words that made me melt; he had sounded so sincere, so _real_ and I had to know why he wouldn't at least _try_ to be with me.

I just had to know, you know? _Why?_ Those honey brown eyes of his locked on mine, his gaze so serious but the look he gave me was one of tenderness - he obviously cared a _little_. The first blow came softly but the impact was strong.

_"You're definitely girlfriend material."_

There was a brief flash of hope and a sharp intake of breath on my part. Not a moment later, that hope came to a screeching halt.

And here the tears start flowing again. I'm pathetic, I think, furiously wiping at my eyes and reflecting on his straightforward, up-front, totally _real_ and very honest statement.

_"I, however, am definitely not boyfriend material."_

The gentle let-down. Or was it just a cleverly concealed insult wrapped in a compliment to help take the edge off? Blow number two was stronger, and the hurt, more intense.

_"I can't do commitment and I don't want to pretend to you that I can."_

No, he never lied to me, had even warned me. Said everything he could to make it crystal clear that he was no-strings-attached kind of guy. But it was the unspoken words, the hidden meaning I chose to read between the lines that gave me cause to believe that it might all change, and that he could change for _me_.

_"If I were to date you, there would be no dating. It would be something, right away."_

So I instigated that first encounter, assured him I could handle a casual relationship. I _had _to be able to handle it; it was the only way he would have agreed to date me. And there was no denying that I wanted him. God, how I wanted him.

::Hiccup:: My hand covers my mouth instinctively and another giggle escapes involuntarily. Past tense, Rory? Silly girl! You _still_ want him. Accept reality, remember? Think _TERRENCE!_

I'm still in my pyjamas. Just me, Betty Boop and my mug, and we can't forget my new Slavic friend, the amazing-liquid-fire-juice-in-a-flask, courtesy of Finn. God bless Finn.

Uh-oh. Mug's empty again. Flask, too, the losers. I'd allowed myself to dream the impossible dream, to follow that star. It took me higher than I ever thought possible, and the resulting fall from glory all but shattered me. And, oh, _GOD_, alcohol makes me sappy. And weepy. Did I mention weepy? With the tears, and wet and sadness and stuff?

I don't want to think anymore. I want more of the pretty fire-juice.

I tip the flask straight over and watch as a trickle of liquid fills the bottom of my mug. Ha! I knew there was another shot left in you! I'm patting the flask, by golly, I haven't smiled this much in ages.

My eye catches a flash of red out the window. Down the path a bit, there, tearing across the courtyard like a man on fire! Finn! Beloved Finn. Drunk, streaking Finn. And then I see _him_, leaning against the wall, perfectly tousled, golden sex-hair, warm, laughing eyes and that ever-present - _and annoying! - _trademark smirk, firmly in place. He's chatting up a Plastic model. I should have known.

"Great balls of fire!" ::Hiccup:: "It's Rhett!"

That last hiccup caught the snort, swallow and cough, along with that exclamation (exhalation?) of 'Rhett!' and choked the breath right out of me. Or it could have been just the sight of him, all nonchalant-like, as if all is right in the world. Then again, as far as he's concerned, all _is_ right in the world.

Men suck.

Buzz-kill. Ugh. Waste of good booze, if you ask me. I'm sure Finn would agree.

Now comes the depressing part of the night. First there was contemplation. Then reflection. Then dissection. Then introspection. Then realization. And, boy, did realization smack me in the face, or what? Especially tonight. Just now. There. Outside my window. With another girl. Casual. No strings. Ye-up. Realization definitely clocked me one, there. And with the startling clarity that comes after said realization, I'm aware that there is only one thing left to do: walk away.

God, I'm not drunk enough for this.

You'd think that with all the overanalyzing that I do, that with all the preparation and research and thought I put into every choice I've ever even _considered_, let alone _acted_ upon, and that for all the pro/con lists I've made for every important step in my life, I didn't think this decision - one of the most important ones in my twenty years of living - through. And, oh, how I'm paying for it now! An amateur actress in the play of Life, I'd made my first important foray into the dating scene without grace and with no sense of direction, and I blew it.

All hail Miss Spontaneous, Stars Hollow. She fell flat on her face during the opening act.

And maybe tomorrow I'll pick up my very bruised heart, shelve my pride and admit defeat. Maybe.

- FIN -


End file.
